We decided to celebrate America’s b-day in the place that started it all: Old City. We met up at Jon’s bar, where Goose’s chalk talk skipped half the marks (not that anyone listens anyway). One of the marks was a selfie check, where the number written was the number of people the pack was supposed to squeeze into a selfie. The pack couldn’t quite establish if that meant “at least” or “exactly” that many people, but we took a bunch of selfies on the jog up through Spruce St. Harbor Park and past the summer fest toward Elfreth’s Alley. Elfreth’s Alley is the nation’s oldest residential street, but more importantly, is home to Just Charlie Brown. We had our Beer Near in the courtyard behind Just Bridget’s apartment, and ooh-ed and ahh-ed over her adorable golden doodle, who liked to play with balloons and get attention. Then we moved on to Washington Square, where we had red, white, and blue Jello shots. On the way back to the bar, people started signing at a song check because Cause showed up even though she wasn’t the DFL – just FYI, it’s only a joke that we wait for Cause to start singing, the rule is really to wait for everyone.

Elfreth's Alley Selfie

Back at the rooftop of Jon’s we held a circle that featured an impressive number of cums latelies/BFM old guard hashers. Including Shop N Fuck, who apparently can’t hang anymore, asking “Have down downs gotten shorter?” Baa Ram Him had an impressive hash crash along trail that effed his face up (but how could you tell?), leaving him looking like a bad Nelly impression. The Virgins were not impressed by circle, but we had a 100% flash rate from our visitors, Super Cool Guy and Maybe It’s Gaybelline. Bitch$hots and Judge Doody had a costume contest, which at first glance appeared to be an easy win for ACP, but Judge Doody was secretly packing a flag speedo under his pants, and image we won’t soon forget.

It was International Dicklomat’s last hash with us before shipping off to Korea :(.

During his time in Philadelphia, Edgar Allan Poe published a short work of nonfiction regaling readers of the natural beauty of the Wissahickon. Recent archival research has revealed an early draft of that essay written (via unnecessarily complicated time paradoxes) on Thursday, June 8th, 2017.

THE natural scenery of America has often been contrasted, in its general features as well as in detail, with the landscape of the Old World — and more especially of Center City — and not deeper has been the enthusiasm, than wide the dissension, of the supporters of each region.

In fact, the real Edens of the land lie far away from Drinkers Tavern — how very far, then, beyond the reach of the casual city hasher, who, having made arrangements with his liver for a certain amount of drink upon city streets, can hope to fulfill his agreement in no other manner than by quaffing, can in hand, through only the most beaten thoroughfares and thoroughbars of the city!

But, even of this delicious region, the sweeter imbibements are reached only by bypaths. Indeed, in America generally, the traveller who would behold the finest landscapes and finest forrest beers, must seek them not by the railroad, nor by the steamboat, nor by the stage-coach, nor in his private carriage, nor yet even on horseback — but on foot. He must run, he must leap ravines, he must risk his neck among precipices, he must follow the marks of Sex Toys for Tots and Silence of the Goats, or he must leave unseen the truest, the richest, and most unspeakable glories of the hash. And beer. Did I mention beer again?

A singular exemplification of my remarks upon this head may be found in the Wissahiccon, a brook, (for more it can scarcely be called) which empties itself into the Schuylkill, about six miles westward of Philadelphia proper and improper alike. He will thus strike the Wissahiccon, at one of its best reaches, and, in a skiff, or by clambering along its banks with 26 hashers, he can go up or down the stream, as best suits his fancy, and in directions scattered by our hares, will meet his reward. More light-footed hashers may delight in uncovering a wild Pantyphille emerging from the underbrush. More experienced, perhaps Three-Balled, hashers will endeavor to hash smarter, not harder. A concerningly geographically-challenged hasher may be struck dumb by the realization that the end location is the same as the start.

Now the Wissahiccon is of so remarkable a loveliness that it must be venerated with strong drink and strong song, some, provided by transplanted Road Runners, of the genitally-interactive variety. Its bounty so overcumming, some hashers may even find themselves announcing imminent offspring to share in its beauty.

Thus ended my romance of the Wissahiccon. Will someone please tell me how to get back to 1844?

International Dicklomat laid an alphabet trail, where the pack had to follow the letters of the alphabet, and the direction the letters were facing told them which way to turn. The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.